By some chance is my flesh made of bronze, or does it matter to me if she’s disenchanted or not? What basket of linen, shirts, scarves, gaiters, though I don’t use them, does she bring with her to soften me? Nothing but one insult after another, though she must know the proverb that says that a jackass loaded down with gold climbs the mountain fast, and gifts can break boulders, and God helps those who help themselves, and a bird in hand is worth two in the bush. And then my master, who should have coddled me and flattered me so I’d turn as soft as wool and carded cotton, says that if he
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